Unwelcome Invader. Angela Devine
I’m glad you didn’t,’ said Brett in measured tones, and let his left hand drop casually on to her knee.
Jane felt as if she were an apple or an orange being squeezed for ripeness. The sensation was not exactly unpleasant, but it woke nothing in her except embarrassment and a desire to escape.
‘Don’t, Brett,’ she begged in a stifled voice, removing his hand.
‘One of these days you’ll come round,’ he said good-humouredly. ‘I’m not a bad bloke, Jane; I’m steady and I’ve got my own farm. That’s worth something.’
With relief Jane saw that they had bumped up the gravel driveway and round the loop which led to the rear of the house.
‘I won’t ask you in, Brett,’ she said hastily. ‘It’s rather late and I’m terribly exhausted after that long flight.’
‘Sure. No worries,’ agreed Brett. ‘But at least let me see you inside.’
‘Well, just to the back door,’ agreed Jane uncomfortably. ‘I’ll be fine then. I see Dad’s left the outside light on for me. Perhaps he didn’t get the message about the plane being delayed.’
‘Sure you’ll be all right, then?’ asked Brett, setting her bags down for her. ‘Anything else I can do for you? A goodnight kiss, maybe?’
‘No!’ wailed Jane. ‘Oh, Brett, cut it out. I’m very, very fond of you, but not like that!’
‘Some women have no taste!’ lamented Brett, touching her briefly on the cheek and then lumbering away to the hire-car. ‘See you in a day or two, Jane.’
Tired as she was, Jane did not go inside immediately once the car had vanished. Instead she stood breathing in deep lungfuls of the clean, cold night air with its unmistakable Australian smell of eucalyptus. From somewhere out of sight she could hear the hoarse croaking of frogs, and the sudden hiss and scuffle and a flash of red eyes in the gum trees next to the barn told her that the possums were active tonight. An exultant smile curved Jane’s lips. It was good to be back! And the best thing of all was the thought that her vines were nearly ready for their first harvest…
Suddenly she realised that she couldn’t possibly wait until tomorrow morning to see how the grapes were getting along. She would have to take a quick glance right away. Groping in her handbag, she fished out the small torch which she always carried while travelling and trained its circle of light on the path leading down to the first of the vineyards. As she picked her way through the rows of espaliered vines a feeling of mounting pride and delight rose inside her. Soon, very soon, she would have her first harvest and then she would find out just what kind of wine she could make from her own grapes. Reaching out, she plucked one of them from a dark cluster and put it in her mouth. It burst with a faint pop, releasing a cool liquid on her tongue—full-bodied, still slightly acid, but very, very promising. With a contented sigh Jane spat the pips on the ground and picked her way back up the slope towards the cluster of buildings. Perhaps she would just take a quick look at her wine cellar too, before she went to bed.
The wine cellar was located beneath the big stone building which had originally been a dairy and was now used to store all the paraphernalia of the vineyard. Disliking the thought of the bright glare of fluorescent lights, Jane did not flick the switch, but used her torch to guide her past the dark shapes of picking buckets, secateurs and lengths of irrigation pipe to the stairs which led to the next level. The door at the bottom was padlocked, but she had the necessary key on her keyring. A moment later the door creaked open and she stepped inside and flashed her torch around. There was a row of oak barrels with silicon bungs—empty now but soon to be filled with her own wine—and a long row of weldmesh shelves containing her own collection of Australian wines built up over several years. It occurred to her that it would be nice to have a glass of wine to celebrate her return. She could always invite a friend over to lunch tomorrow, to finish the bottle with her. Pausing pleasurably, she ran her fingers along the mesh and finally chose a bottle of Penfold’s Grange Hermitage. Her mouth watered at the prospect of that dark berry fruit and charred oak bouquet, the full-bodied flavour and the astringent tannins that would follow.
‘I can’t wait,’ she murmured aloud.
At that moment there was a stealthy footstep on the stairs behind her. Not particularly troubled, Jane swung round, expecting to see her father. Instead a total stranger stood there before her, caught in the beam of her torch. A grim, unsmiling man in his mid-thirties, dressed in grey trousers and an open necked shirt, with dark brown hair brushed back from a lean, sardonic face and the most hostile brown eyes Jane had ever seen. He was advancing towards her in a purposeful crouch like a hunting animal and there was something utterly terrifying about the grim twist of his lips. Jane’s heart lurched.
‘What do you want?’ she asked in a high, nervous voice, stepping back a pace and half raising the bottle as if it was a weapon.
‘You,’ he breathed, and sprang.
Jane screamed, hurled the bottle and ran. There was wild confusion as she heard the shatter of breaking glass against the brick wall, smelled the sudden, heady perfume of red wine and felt her heart would burst from her chest as she raced down the avenue of flagstones between the shelves and the barrels. Her torch beam swung wildly, revealing the other exit, a crude, wooden door leading out into a rough shrubbery on the slope behind the building. It shouldn’t be padlocked, only bolted from the inside. Could she make it before he caught her? Transferring the torch to her left hand, she seized the bolt with her right, wrenched violently and pushed. It was like a nightmare. Nothing happened. Some resistance on the outside was preventing the door from opening. With a sob of frustration Jane hurled herself at it. A shuddering jolt went through her entire body, but still the door would not yield. Then suddenly a powerful hand caught her by the neck of her shirt and swung her round.
‘It seems I have you right where I want you,’ breathed a hoarse, masculine voice.
‘Oh, no, you don’t!’ cried Jane defiantly and, swinging the torch, she hit him hard on the side of the face. Another jarring impact travelled up Jane’s arm, but the stranger barely seemed to feel the blow. The only response he gave was a quick, sharp intake of breath, then his right hand came out and crushed her fingers, forcing her to release the torch. Gasping in outrage, Jane kicked him in the shins. With a faint sigh, he took one of her hands and twisted it behind her back. A warning twinge of pain went through her.
‘I don’t want to hurt you, mademoiselle,’ he murmured apologetically. ‘But you and I need to have a little talk.’
‘What about?’ panted Jane indignantly. ‘What is there to talk about? You’re a raving lunatic who attacked me for no reason at all.’
He shone the torch disconcertingly in her face, so that she blinked in its dazzling light.
‘Quite pretty,’ he said in the tone of a connoisseur. ‘Big green eyes, delicate features, long, curly blonde hair. The hair needing the attentions of a good hairdresser. Not quite the sort of vandal I expected, I must admit. Tell me, mademoiselle, what made you break into my wine cellar?’
‘Y-your wine cellar?’ stuttered Jane furiously. ‘Now I know you’re insane. This is my wine cellar, not yours.’
‘Ah, I begin to understand,’ he said courteously. ‘You are not the juvenile delinquent, but merely deranged. My apologies for handling you so roughly, mademoiselle. You deserve pity, not blame.’
‘I am not a juvenile delinquent!’ shouted Jane, although as a matter of fact she looked remarkably like one in her crumpled jeans and wine-splashed shirt with her hair falling in her eyes. ‘And I’m not mentally deranged, either! If anyone is deranged it’s you, claiming that this wine cellar is yours. My father is the legal owner of this farm and I own every barrel and bottle of wine in this cellar.’
As she spoke she slapped one hand against the weldmesh shelves, to emphasise her point.
‘Don’t do that!’ exclaimed her companion in horror. ‘It’s very bad for the wine.’